The Arms of an Angel
by Ilium
Summary: Jason wakes from a nightmare but finds comfort in the arms of his angel. One-shot from somewhere between Identity and Supremacy. Warning: 99 per cent pointless.


The Arms of an Angel

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Disclaimer – Not mine, obviously. Belongs to the writers, directors, and producers of the Bourne Identity / Supremacy. (Yadda, yadda, yadda.)

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_A cold, wet city street, car lights glimmering off the slippery asphalt._

_A room lavished with gaudy wallpaper and red, printed carpet. _

_A beige lampshade, the pleats rumpled on one side._

_A voice?_

But there was no voice, just the dull, whining hum of Marie's salvaged air conditioner. It was quite a mystery as to whether or not the thing had ever worked properly, not that it really mattered. What did matter was that the sound was driving Jason crazy, boring into his already pounding skull with an intensity that should not have been afforded to such a simple piece of technology. The damn thing certainly didn't need to be on, it was freezing cold in the house, even under the covers next to Marie.

Carefully, Jason extracted himself from underneath the covers and the slender arm that lay atop them, trailing his eyes from Marie's unpolished fingernails to her long lashed eyes, still graced with angelic slumber. Some nights were bad, and though he had never woken Marie purposefully for such a silly and inconsequential reason as a bad dream, he was glad sometimes that she was awake. On this night though, he was happier to watch her sleep in peace for a moment, to fill his mind with thoughts of her sun-bleached hair splayed across soft cotton pillows rather than thoughts of things he had done, or may have done, could have done, or should have done.

A chill swept over him and he shuddered much too violently for his taste. He had to force himself to keep from wincing as the sudden jarring movement caused scarlet lances of pain to shoot across the gossamer thin reality that hovered around him.

_A woman's voice, no words. Just her terrified voice._

That was new. Jason stumbled backwards, thudding into the bathroom doorframe before he entered the bathroom proper, shut the door a little more than firmly behind him and buried his face in his hands, fingers reaching out to rub calming circles at his temples. "Shit," he cursed to himself as he grabbed a small bottle of pills from the medicine cabinet. He mostly hated taking the damn things, but on some occasions - like having to go back to sleep so that in the morning he could pretend that everything was well and good - they were warranted.

With two round white pills in hand, Jason toasted his reflection in the bathroom mirror, quietly declaring "Bottoms up," before swallowing the bitter tablets and turning a more critical eye towards his echo image. No wonder he was freezing cold, he thought, half glaring at his sweat soaked shirt before ripping it over his head and heading back to the bedroom, hating above all things the way that every step he took seemed to make the throbbing pain that spidered across his skull worse. He was so preoccupied with the simple actions of walking and changing shirts from dream to awaiting dream, that he failed to notice that Marie, while still lying in bed, was quite awake and alert, until he had lowered himself carefully down beside her and had curled into a heat-conserving ball in an attempt to get warm under dream-soaked blankets.

"You're shivering," she said, reaching the same slender arm around his shoulders and pulling him towards her.

He said nothing in return, didn't even move when Marie fitted her body against his and ran her fingers lightly up and down his arm in a gesture so tender and innocent that he felt filthy and vulgar in her angelic presence. Marie was kind, compassionate, merciful - everything that he was beginning to realize he had been the opposite of. There were some things that Jason Bourne felt he deserved. The half-ignorant guilt that sometimes swamped him was one, but the beauty that always had the power to stir those feelings of unworthiness in him was not. She was too good; too cleanhanded, and her stainless fingers were running up and down his tainted flesh.

"Nothing new?"

Jason shook his head, his eyelids closed tight together in a futile attempt to calm his raving conscience. It was a blatant lie that he was telling her in saying no, but he was betting on Marie not digging any deeper even if his answer rang less than true.

His gamble turned up bad.

"Please, Jason," she said, and though Jason paid little heed to her words, so drowned out by his own tumultuous thoughts as they were, he relished the sound of her voice. "Please?"

"Don't," he replied, the single syllable too harsh sounding even in his own ears, and he was greatly relieved when she didn't immediately push the issue, but instead pulled his head against the warm, pillowy softness of her breast and brushed the hair gently from his face. Again thoughts of his dereliction of basic morals, his disgrace over errors that he could barely even begin to so much as remember, filled him until his was brimming with it.

And her hands were still there, almost frighteningly cool against his face, as cold as death, one might say. "Don't," he whispered again, drawing into himself more quickly than ever before, imagining things that can only be conceived of by those that have experienced them: the sight of too-bright blood painting the walls in potentially prize-winning abstract forms, the very same blood dried to rust and engrained in one's own palms, the feel of a gun, cold, hard, and heavy, motionless until it is fired and it bucks suddenly upwards.

Weathered lips brushed almost desperately against his forehead, and he at last glanced up, pulling himself forcibly from his thoughts and concentrating only on the here, the now. Now it was Marie's turn to be silent when an answer was expected, and she took full advantage of the opportunity, saying nothing but leaning forward once again and brushing her lips carefully over his cheek. They came away slick with salty sweat and glimmering with a single silver tear.

Jason sobered, realizing only now that he had been crying, if one tear can count as such. Moreover, he had scared Marie; the worried slant to her eyes was evidence enough. That was one thing that Jason never wanted to do. He wanted Marie kept safe and secure. Nothing else mattered. She was his mission, his objective, and his reward.

The throbbing pain at his temples all but vanished, his memories all but disappeared, the silken veil of perceived reality pulled back to reveal only one true thing. For a moment he smiled at her, and then he laid down his head and basked in her light, drifting to sleep in the arms of an angel.

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A/N – Yay! I love the Bourne Identity. I have wanted to write something like this for so long. Could have been better, but hey. I think I'll live. Please review!!! Criticism very much welcomed.


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